


Familiar

by Alison_Ocean



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, Hozier in the Kastle Week, Kastle Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alison_Ocean/pseuds/Alison_Ocean
Summary: Their shoulders are a whisper apart, and in moments like these when she’s holding in laughter and stealing glances to check if he’s really serious, she can feel the heat circulating in that little inch of exposed universe so much more intensely than she’s certain is warranted.





	

“Come on, Page, seriously? You never saw him walk into a wall or something?”

Karen can’t help the giggle that crawls up her throat, and she hides it by raising the bottle to her lips and taking another sip of lukewarm beer. That’s Frank, never beating around the bush. She looks up towards the sky – the few stars that are visible above the streetlights peek shyly through the metal skeleton of the fire escape – and shakes her head.

They’re sitting on the scaffolding that stretches beneath her apartment windows, backs against the brick wall. Karen’s legs are folded underneath her and she leans on one hand, holding her second beer (it was a long day at the office) with the other. Frank’s legs are stretched out in front of him, one crossed over the other, his black military boots easily clearing the edge of the landing by a good four inches. Instead of a beer, he’s holding a styrofoam cup of what she presumes is now cold house brew. She’s never seen him drink anything harder than coffee, and is unsure whether he doesn’t as a general rule, or if she’s just never seen him on an “off” night. Although in her estimation, this is pretty close to it.

Their shoulders are a whisper apart, and in moments like these when she’s holding in laughter and stealing glances to check if he’s really serious, she can feel the heat circulating in that little inch of exposed universe so much more intensely than she’s certain is warranted. She knows dollops of pink are flagging her cheeks, and she’s not sure whether it’s the alcohol or present company that’s responsible for that.

He is looking at her incredulously, the barest hint of a smile cracking the corner of his lips as he patiently waits for an answer to his absolutely serious question.

“No, Frank.” The warmth of her laugh still coats the words. “Matt’s not like that. Even though he’s blind, he’s always been very…competent.” Little had she known exactly _how_ competent, until a few short months ago.

She turns to scrutinize him. “Why do you care so much?”

“I’m just trying to figure it out.” He says, and she can’t really tell if he’s still teasing her. “How a guy who’s completely blind keeps getting so goddamned close to wiping the floor with me.”

She sobers a little bit at that. It’s no secret that Matt and Frank have what some would call a “marginal difference in ideology.” But she’d assumed that they’d never actually come to blows over anything, especially since they operate on virtually the same side of the law, with a whole city to put between them. Her eyes scan over his face again, this time noting with new perception the slightly discolored swelling on his left cheek…the dark purple shadow blooming beneath his right eye socket… Was Matt responsible for these?

“Nah, it’s not like that.” Frank interrupts her thoughts, his inscrutable stare easily dissecting her expression. “Red hasn’t gotten a free shot at me since that night at the pier.” They both look away in the shared silence that follows; a lingering echo of the brutality entwined with the memory of that night, different for both of them.

“He was there?” She eventually asks, her curiosity piqued. He chuckles once without humor. “Oh yeah, he was there alright.” The rumble of some suppressed rage swims beneath the surface of the words, indistinct. She cocks her head at him, trying to decipher his tone in that eerie way he often deciphers hers. He catches her expression and shakes his head, visibly refocusing on the topic. “Dropped me flat on my ass that time, too. Didn’t even know he was fully blind then – just thought he relied more on his hearing to get the job done.”

He turns to face her. “So how about it, huh? What’s his secret?”

She shakes her head, wondering how on earth she’s expected to to come up with a suitable answer to this line of questioning. “Matt’s very stubborn… ” She begins lamely.

“Yeah, so am I.” He interjects. “But you don’t see me tying a blindfold over my eyes and trying to land a backflip off this rooftop.”

Karen completely gives up at that remark, throwing up her free hand a letting it land against her thigh with an audible _smack_. She can’t suppress the ghost of a grin as she downs another gulp of beer, shaking her head in exasperation. Clearly he feels more like taking free shots at Matt than getting actual answers to his ridiculous questions.

A second passes, and she can feel his warm eyes on her – dark and weighted as damp earth. Expectant.

 _Oh, damn it._ She bites her lip and mentally makes an effort to revisit that long, drawn out conversation with Matt where he’d meticulously cracked open a year’s worth of lies while she asked question after question after question.

“He does see, that’s his advantage.” She finally says. “Through all of his other senses…touch, taste, hearing, smell…he paints a picture in his mind that is so like reality that it’s…transposable to him.” She uses her hands to illustrate, trying to phrase it right. “Regular blind people, they use their senses to visualize their surroundings – orient themselves as best they can without sight, right?”

He nods silently, his posture indicating that she has his complete attention. She continues.

“What Matt can do is much more substantial. Matt…”, she searches for the best term, “… _feels_ the world around him. It’s like each one of his senses are fingers, reaching out, tracing the outline of every shape, learning its dimensions…creating an exact image in his mind that he can just… _see_ …” she trails off as she briefly runs out of steam.

Maybe it’s the booze, but talking about Matt causes a brief swell of longing to fill her chest – longing for the lost days at Nelson & Murdock. Back when it was just her, Matt, and Foggy against the world. Their slapdash legal team was the closest she’d gotten to having a real family since moving to New York. If she’s being completely honest, it was the closest she’d gotten to one since she was a little girl.

The memory of one particular client meeting with Foggy comes floating to the surface, unannounced. She turns her head and slants a speculative look in Frank’s direction. His coffee cup is raised halfway to his mouth, his eyes resting on her. She can see him reading into her hesitation...biding his time…waiting for her to fill the silence with words. The gentle twitch of that trigger finger against the styrofoam is the only part of him that seems distracted. She glances at his hands, and already she can feel the faint stirrings of a genuine Irish blush rising from her chest to her hairline. But the alcohol – god bless it (god curse it?) – is making her brave.

She puts down her nearly-empty beer bottle and slowly rolls to her knees. She scoots forward until her knees are just an inch away from Frank’s denim-clad thigh, then sits back on her heels. Frank studies her adjustments in silence, but his eyes narrow suspiciously when she reaches up and mildly plucks the coffee cup from his long, elegant fingers and sets it aside. She wants to laugh at his obvious perturbation, but carefully schools her expression. Some visceral instinct tells her to keep her movements slow and steady – no surprises. She reaches out and grasps both of his wrists, one in each hand, and lifts them. She can feel rather than see the unspoken question in his eyes.

For a moment she’s distracted by how foreign, almost unnerving, the sensation is. It occurs to her that (although she hasn’t exactly been keeping tabs) this may be the first time she’s willingly touched him, skin against skin.  As if to emphasize the distinction, she detects the faint, rhythmic throb of his pulse – _what do you know, Frank Castle has a heartbeat after all_ – against her fingertips as she turns his hands palm-up.

“Okay. Now close your eyes.”

Now he looks concerned for her sanity. She wants to smack his shoulder just for that look, but she’s afraid that if she lets go of one of his hands, she might not get it back.

“Close them.” She raises her eyebrows. Waiting.

He searches her face, bemused. There’s a vulnerability in his features that she’s only seen once before – when she blindsided him with the picture of his family at the hospital. He’d been unprepared for that assault, and he looks equally unprepared for this one. She can feel his reluctance – it would be hard to miss it – but he eventually complies.

“Now…imagine you’ve never seen my face before.”

She braces herself – for what, she doesn’t know. His reaction? Before she can completely lose her nerve, she leans in slightly and guides his hands to her face. A muscle jumps in his jaw when they make contact, but his eyes stay closed. The broad pads of his palms swallow her cheeks and she smooths his fingers over her temples and holds them there.

Her cheeks are already burning. She’s not sure whether this is from a reactionary blush or whether his palms just radiate heat. Potentially both.

“Try to…try to ‘see’ me.” She instructs. Her voice comes out softer, smaller than she intends. She fights the urge to clear her throat.

She tentatively lets her hands fall away.  

His fingers gently contract against her skin, adjusting to the unfamiliar landscape. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and she’s aware of the subtle scrape of a callous – formed from nearly a decade of pulling a trigger – as his index finger restlessly flexes against the wisps of hair at her temple.

She remembers when Foggy did this, his hands had been soft and smooth. A lawyer’s hands. Frank’s hands, likewise, are an extension of his profession; slightly rough but assuredly steady against her skin. Firm, heated stone that cradles the delicate shell of her ear, then shifts upwards to confidently trace the edge of one eyebrow. She breathes lightly through her nose and catches a whiff of copper and stale gunpowder.

Unexpectedly the pads of his thumbs come up and draw smoothly down across her eyelids, closing them. She feels him lightly trace the hollows of her eyes through the sensitive membrane, and shivers reflexively.

There’s a slight tickle as his thumbs brush across her bare lashes, then pause to sweep the faint circles beneath them. The lavender smudges are waking evidence of the long nights spent nursing caffeine and chasing fragments of a story. If not for the bruises, he’d probably be sporting a pair of his own.

His right hand draws down, and the tips of his fingers leave a line of heat as they meticulously learn the contours of her jaw. As his hand goes to cup her chin, his thumb unexpectedly catches on the edge of her lower lip. It stutters and immediately jerks away like she’s burned him.

With that one jolt of movement, the tenuous thread holding the moment snaps. Her eyes flick open and she pulls back. He lets her go. His expression is neutral, but she detects a shadow of tension in the subtle tightening of his eyes, and in the hard line of his jaw.

For a second she forgets what the point of this whole exercise was. All she can think is how stone-cold sober she suddenly is, how deafening the silence has become without the faint rasp of skin to fill it.

“That’s, um…” She clears her throat. “That’s the best comparison, I think.” She looks away. “To how Matt…’sees.’” She ineptly drops the last word.

She needs something to do with her hands, so she grabs the beer bottle and holds out her hand for his coffee cup, which he willingly surrenders without a word. She’s not sure whether it’s intentional, but their fingers don’t touch as he hands it to her.

She struggles to her feet, joints stiff from sitting for so long. She eases through the open window and has just turned towards the kitchen when she hears his voice again. Deep and beveled with some unnamed emotion, lightening at the end with just a ghost of humor. Spoken so quietly she’ll question for hours whether she didn’t just imagine it.

“Lucky man.”


End file.
